


Tea, Hold the Sympathy

by liriodendron



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ficlet, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:09:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liriodendron/pseuds/liriodendron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short little ficlet that may eventually be the kernel of something more. Just Sherlock Holmes and John Watson sharing a pot of tea in 221B.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea, Hold the Sympathy

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks as always to wearitcounts (Sher_locked_up) for her wise edits and for refusing to let me be lazy with my endings, even in just a little bit of fluff.

            John Watson reuses his tea leaves. He does it unconsciously, a habit that testifies to the privations of the war he rarely speaks of. Sherlock Holmes has noticed this, along with a host of other unthinking economies, such as the careful folding of his newspaper so as never to wrinkle it and the darning of his own socks. Things that make his military background an ever-present note in the daily hum of their lives, loud enough that Sherlock cannot ignore it even when John seems quite content to do.

            John is making tea now, by Sherlock’s count about to eke out a third, absurdly weak pot from the dregs of this morning. It’s almost as predictable as the shine he gives his shoes every Sunday night. Except, it seems, in one particular circumstance.

           Sherlock isn’t yet certain about this. Not completely. So he listens keenly for the whistle of kettle from his chair in the sitting room. He counts the seconds, and at the precise instant that John should be about to pour the hot water over the limp and lifeless residue, he calls out casually.

            “John. If you’re making tea, bring me a cup.”

            He hears a hesitation. A damp muffled thump and the bin snapping shut. The creak of the kitchen cabinet door, the slight squeak of the lid of a tin being pried off, and finally, the nearly inaudible rustle of dried tea leaves being measured out carefully.

            “Right. Just a mo.”

            “Fascinating,” murmurs Sherlock to himself. This is the third time he’s performed this experiment on his flatmate, and the data have been consistent. He smiles distractedly, reflexively as John hands him the steaming mug of Ceylon, strong and dark despite the obligatory dash of milk. Sherlock notes nothing unusual on his friend’s face, no sign that he’s noticed the alteration of his own behaviour.  

            Sherlock stares at John, oblivious and ensconced in a book on the other side of the room, fixedly over the rim of his battered mug. He gives John’s still figure the same level of focus he would give a troublesome corpse until he loses track of how much time has passed and finds John staring back at him, strangely.

            “Everything all right?”

            “Yes. Yes, of course. Just, the tea you made…”

            “Yes?” John furrows his brow, concerned.

            “It’s…it’s very good.”

            “You sure? Because you’ve let it go cold.”  

            “I… no.” Sherlock clears his throat and tries again, with emphasis. “You made it for me and it’s _very good_. Thank you.”

            John tilts his head and his face crinkles into a grin as warm as the best hot beverage, as warm as anything Sherlock has ever encountered. “Well,” he says after a moment, suddenly awkward, burying his nose in his reading to hide the flush of colour in his cheeks, “any time. Just ask.”

            Sherlock drains the tepid liquid without taking his eyes off John. He smiles a faint, private smile, as if the answer to a particularly unfathomable case has just resolved itself neatly before his eyes. “Yes,” he says, quietly but with a new air of surety. “I certainly will.”


End file.
